


table for three

by pocky_slash



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Canon Jewish Character, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Judaism, Male-Female Friendship, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 07:36:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2765018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik should have known to call ahead to the Chinese restaurant--it's Christmas Eve and he lives in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood, after all. But before he can go home to mourn the loss of another one of his mother's yearly traditions, he's accosted by a teenage girl with a strange proposition--that he should stay and have dinner with her and her mother, instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	table for three

**Author's Note:**

  * For [metonymy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/metonymy/gifts).



> Written for **metonymy** for Secret Mutant Madness 2014 for her prompt about Kitty and Erik exploring their Judaism. Based on one of **allofthefeelings** ' great Hanukkah/Jewish Holiday prompts, found [here](http://allofthefeelings.tumblr.com/post/104521356215/in-response-to-ameliaratings-point-that-holiday)! Thanks to, uh, **metonymy** for reading this over (I'm shameless) and **pearlo** for a quick beta ♥

The year Erik's mother died, Charles didn't go up to North Salem for Christmas.

"You know I'd rather be here with you," Charles said over and over again when Erik protested. Hanukkah was over by Christmas, that year, and while he understood Charles wanting to be home for Hanukkah—minor holiday though it might be, it was always one Erik's mom was particularly fond of—Christmas itself held no actual significance for Erik.

All of that is technically true, but this year, on his own in their empty apartment, he's beginning to realize that while his family may never have celebrated Christmas, there are certainly traditions that he's suddenly, deeply missing. Christmas Eve is supposed to be for Chinese food and _Singin' in the Rain_. Christmas Day is reserved for whatever stupid movie he and his mother could agree to see together. They're silly little things, but they're still important to him. More important than he realized until they were gone.

Even last year he barely gave it a second thought. He and Charles were both off from work on December 24th and spent most of it marathoning _Law and Order_ on Netflix, getting out from under the covers only to get dressed for dinner. They ate at the same Chinese place Erik always did and put on _Singin' in the Rain_ when they got back, but spent more time making out than watching Gene Kelly. They rolled out of bed in the morning and argued over what movie to see and came home and did laundry. It was any other day, just like it's always been every other day, right up until he realizes how important it is.

In retrospect, he feels like an idiot for sending Charles away this year. A cold, hungry, lonely, mopey idiot who's lying face down on his couch without his human furnace fiancé and stupid Chinese food traditions and old movie musicals.

An idiot who really misses his mom.

He raises a hand and summons his phone from where he left it on the kitchen table and turns his head to the side enough to see the screen. It's blank—just Charles' face smiling out at him with the time and date. No new messages. No missed calls. He considers calling someone else to commiserate, but he can count his friends on one hand and they're all fucking goyim, packed off to their families for the holiday.

He sighs and unlocks and screen, pausing only a moment before tapping out a message to Charles.

_You were right,_ he types. He's surprised it doesn't autocorrect to "I am always right and you are always wrong" given the infrequency with which he types those words. _I'm bored, I miss you, I miss mom._

The response takes three long minutes, during which Erik rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling.

_Oh, my darling. I'm so sorry,_ he reads when the phone finally buzzes with Charles' message. A second buzz immediately follows. _Do you want me to come home? We're at that horrible party right now, but I'll stop drinking and drive home as soon as I safely can._

It's nearing 7pm. Charles has already been drinking his feelings away for two hours at this point. As much as Erik wants to say, "Yes, please immediately come home, I'm feeling feelings, I hate feeling feelings, you're the only one who can make it better," he also doesn't want to be a widower at twenty-nine. Or a near-widower, at least.

_No no, stay there tonight,_ he types back. _There will be enough shitheads driving drunk, and it's a long drive._

_Two, maybe three hours and I'll leave,_ Charles texts back.

_No,_ Erik repeats. _Come home tomorrow morning. We'll go to a movie._

_If you're positive,_ Charles responds. Then, _I love you so much. I shouldn't have listened to you. I should be there with you._

_Next time we'll know,_ Erik writes back, and finds himself getting uncomfortably verklempt.

_Are you going out for Chinese at least?_ Charles asks.

_I haven't yet,_ Erik admits. _I kinda don't want to get off the couch._

He knows he should. He knows he should order take-out, if nothing else, or at least make some toast, but he'd much rather feel sorry for himself and remain immobile.

_Go out,_ Charles says. _Go sit somewhere well-lit and cheerful and eat your dinner and think about your mum. It's tradition. She'd want you to uphold that, at least._

Charles is right, but Erik's not about to admit that twice in one night.

_Maybe,_ he says instead.

_Please do,_ Charles says. Then, _I love you. I'm sorry I'm not there._

_I love you too,_ Erik sends, then puts the phone on the floor.

He is hungry. And his mom _would_ want him to go out and carry on their tradition. Charles will be home tomorrow morning—it's just another twelve or thirteen hours without him. Erik's not a child, he can manage to be alone for just twelve or thirteen hours.

He pushes himself off of the couch and hunts for his shoes and coat and hat and scarf. If he's lucky, he'll run into some of the old gang at the Chinese restaurant. Normally, he works hard to avoid people, but tonight, missing his mom, maybe he'll take his old Hebrew school friends up on their usual offer of a drink.

***

The streets are damp from an earlier drizzle and the puddles all reflect red and green flashing lights and decorations. He tries not to be an asshole about Christmas, he really does. He doesn't have anything against Christmas itself, mostly just the assholes who act like it's the law of the land, the only possible holiday and religious affiliation, as if they're not in the middle of New York Fucking City. As a kid, it was a boon—it meant a week off of school with none of the religious and family obligations that his Christian classmates were stuck with. As an adult, he still has no use for it. Charles likes Christmas well enough as a concept, but he wouldn't celebrate if it wasn't for family obligations that rip him back up to Westchester every year.

"I'd skip it if I could," he'd whispered miserably to Erik their first winter together, huddled under the blankets on the tiny bed in Erik's dorm room, just days before Charles was leaving for break. "I hate it. I hate them. But I can't."

There are days, more of them than he'd like to admit even to the telepathic man who's to be his husband, that he doesn't understand why his amazing, loving, respectful mother was taken from him, but Charles' abusive, insufferable mother and stepfather live on.

The point being, though, that Erik's used to feeling left out, othered. He's a mutant and he's gay and Jewish and he grew up poor. He's used to being on the outside and he has no problem with Christmas, but he's acutely aware that it's a thing that is specifically Not For Him. Those slights are easier to deal with when Charles is at his side, or his mother is a phone call away, and tonight he's alone, hurrying through the streets and ignoring the Christmas carols and reminding himself bitterly that this was his own stupid choice.

The Chinese restaurant is bustling and warm and he immediately feels a little better once he steps inside. While there might be some gentiles mixed into the crowd, he immediately spots at least three families that he recognizes from going to synagogue with his mother. Everyone is laughing and talking and it's the first public place he's been inside since November that isn't playing Christmas music. He relaxes a little as he walks up to the counter. Maybe Charles was right. Maybe this is a good idea.

He steps around a group waiting and nearly trips over a high school girl who's sitting with her back against the wall, bent over a tablet, but makes his way to the counter relatively unscathed.

"Take-out?" the woman at the desk asks him, glancing up, and he shakes his head.

"No, I'd like to eat in."

"How many?" she asks.

"Just me."

She frowns at him. It's more like a glare, actually. Erik is confused, until he focuses again on all those chatty, happy people and realizes that the place is booked solid. The tables are filled, wall to wall, save for a small one currently being cleaned, and there are some families leaning against the wall, waiting, chatting amongst themselves.

"It's a long wait," she says.

"Uh," he says. Shit. He should have called ahead. Or come earlier. Or later? He could always go somewhere else, there's no shortage of Chinese restaurants in New York City, but this is their place. This is where he used to come with his mother.

"How long is the wait?" he finally asks, and the woman sighs and looks down at her desk. There are a lot of names on that list. Then she turns the page and he sees there are even more. He's about to give up when he feels a tug on his pant leg. He looks down—the high school girl curled over her tablet is tugging on his jeans.

"Why don't you eat with us?" she asks. Erik blinks at her.

"Do I know you?" he asks. He assumes she knows—knew—his mother. Maybe she went to the same temple.

"Nope," she says. She gets to her feet and shoves her tablet under her arm, then offers her hand for him to shake. She's like, twelve. "I'm Kitty."

"Uh, what?" he says, but finds himself shaking her hand anyway.

"Sir," the woman at the desk says, but the girl—Kitty—leans over and says, "He'll just eat with us, it's fine!"

"Your table will be ready momentarily, then," the woman says, and then turns away to deal with someone picking up take-out.

Erik turns his attention back to the girl.

"Look, that's nice of you and everything, but I don't know you," he says. She shrugs. "You don't know me," he tries instead. "I could be a murderer."

"You could be," Kitty agrees. "But you're Jewish and you're a mutant and so am I." She points to the pins on his messenger bag—the stylized "M" of the mutant rights movement and one from his Birthright trip in college. "It's just me and my mom, so you should sit with us."

"You're like, five," Erik says dubiously. "I could be a kidnapper."

"I'm sixteen," she says, giving him a level look. "And if you were a kidnapper you'd either just kidnap me right now and get it over with or you'd be pleased by your good fortune of being invited to eat dinner with a potential victim."

"You're kind of twisted," he tells her, but he has to admit he likes her.

"Kitty, is our table ready?" a middle-aged woman asks, inching through the crowd.

"They said it will just be another minute," Kitty says. "Mom, this is—uh—"

"Erik," Erik supplies dryly.

"Mom, this is Erik," Kitty says. "He can't get a table, so I told him he could sit with us. That's okay, right?"

Kitty's mother sighs. "Kitty—"

"He's all alone!" Kitty insists. "And it's _Christmas_."

"We're Jewish," Kitty's mother says in the same beleagured tone.

"So am I," Erik says. He's not unaware of how skeevy a twenty-nine year old guy sitting down to to dinner with a sixteen year old girl looks, so he adds, "And, uh, gay and—well, practically married." He holds up his hand to display the plain band of his engagement ring. He doesn't know why, two minutes ago, he was ready to walk out and now he's wheedling for a space at Kitty's dinner table.

"And he's a mutant," Kitty adds. "And he's _all alone_."

Kitty's mother rolls her eyes and sighs. "Katherine...."

But she doesn't finish the sentence, just shakes her head as a waiter appears.

"Ms. Pryde?" he asks. "Right this way."

"Well, come on, then," Kitty's mother says, and nudges him to follow the waiter out onto the restaurant floor.

Kitty's mother is named Theresa, Erik learns as they all settle in at the table with some menus. She's divorced, and tomorrow afternoon she and Kitty are leaving on their annual ski trip.

"And what about you?" she asks. "'Practically married' and 'all alone' don't seem to go together around the holidays."

"My fiancé isn't Jewish," Erik says. "He's with his family for Christma, and they barely tolerate him and despise me, so. Here I am."

"Is it because he's gay? Or is he a mutant too? Is it because of that?" Kitty asks. Theresa tries to shush her.

"Katherine! Don't be rude."

"I'm socializing," Kitty insists. "You're always trying to get me to socialize more!"

"Yes," Theresa says, "with teenagers your own age, not by gossiping about the personal lives of strange men you don't know!"

"Well, that's a stupid rule," Kitty says, and Erik tries not to laugh.

"No, no—I mean, they're probably not thrilled that he's a mutant or that he's marrying another guy, but mostly they hate me because I called his mother a heartless drunk and his stepfather an idiotic bully to their faces when they showed up hours late to our college graduation," he says. Still true, seven years later. Still not out of line given the circumstances. Still totally worth Charles shouting at him later that night.

"Nice," Kitty says. Theresa just sighs.

"Yeah," Erik says. "After that I was formally disinvited from their house until the end of time, which is fine by me, but it means he's there and I'm not."

"Well, that sucks for him. For you too, I guess," Kitty says. Theresa sighs again, but she seems to have given up on forcing Kitty to be blandly polite.

A waiter appears to take their order, and after a brief conference in which Theresa and Kitty bully him into agreeing to order family style, they send him away to bring them a metric fuckton of food. Erik shouldn't be so surprised—he and Charles and his Mom usually over-ordered just as much, bringing the leftovers home for a midnight snack or to be eaten straight out of the carton with chopsticks for breakfast the next morning.

"What about your family?" Kitty asks the moment the waiter disappears. "So, your boyfriend does Christmas with his parents—don't you have family to eat Chinese food and watch Disney movies with? Or are they far away?"

Erik sucks on his teeth for a moment and considers how to answer. _He is my family_ sounds a little hokey and desperate, even if it's the truth, now, the aching words he whispered hollowly to Charles over and over again while sitting shiva. 

"I have an aunt in Israel," he says, "but mostly, uh—well, my dad died when I was little and it was just my mom and me and she died last year." He has no idea why he's telling them this, swallowing past the lump in his throat, except that despite not knowing the Prydes, this does distantly feel like a million lunches and dinners with his mother's friends, who could get him to spill his secrets faster than anyone. 

"I think you're going to propose to that boy soon," he remembers Mrs. Mertz saying one Saturday afternoon after services not long before his mother died. Erik had, in fact, a ring burning a hole in his pocket that very minute. He hadn't breathed a word to anyone, even his mother, for weeks, but within seconds he was babbling about the entire elaborate plan, how hard he'd worked to hide it from Charles' telepathy, assuring the gathered women that they'd be raising any future children Jewish, and fending off hugs and pats on the hand in congratulations.

In retrospect, he's glad for Mrs. Mertz's snooping—his mother's death was sudden and only a few weeks later. He'd already proposed to Charles by that point and given her the happy news, but she would never have heard all his thoughts about weddings and children and future plans otherwise. He's comforted thinking that she knew those things at her death, at the very least.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Erik," Theresa says, patting the back of his hand. 

"Yeah, that sucks," Kitty says. "I'm really sorry."

Erik swallows again and tries to act casual. He wonders when thinking about his mother will stop hurting, if ever.

"It does," he agrees, his voice wavering more than he would like. "And it was really just us—she was on the ladies' auxiliary at the synagogue and they're all really good about checking in and taking me out after holiday services and stuff, but—" He shrugs. 

"But this stuff is important too!" Kitty says. "Chinese food and Disney movies and skiing! Isn't it weird that we have Christmas traditions even though we don't celebrate Christmas?"

"It is a little," Erik says, grateful for the abrupt turn out of the personal and into larger cultural matters. "And I guess I never really thought about them as Christmas traditions until last year when Charles didn't go home for Christmas because he didn't want me to be alone without Mom. And I told him that was ridiculous, Hanukkah was over, but...he was right."

"Yeah!" Kitty says. "Like, every year the kids at school are like, 'Oh, you're going on a ski trip for Christmas?' and I'm like, 'Well, yes, we're going _at_ Christmas, but it's not _for_ Christmas.'"

Dumb stories he can do. He has a million of them—stupid instances where people made assumptions about his cultural background or mutant status or relative gayness. And while he has no problem ranting at Charles about people who say idiotic things without realizing he's human or gay—hell, Charles himself can go on for hours about the cultural erasure of his own bisexuality—it's harder to tell these stories about the slights against his Judaism. He's not sure why—Charles is sympathetic and and compassionate and rolls his eyes in all the right places, but there's a difference between sympathizing and living it.

"I had one boneheaded elementary school teacher—it was her first year teaching and she obviously didn't realize it was a predominantly Jewish neighborhood," Erik says to Kitty. "And she asked us to talk about what we did for Christmas in like, a free-writing thing in our journals? And then we all read them and half the class was watching movies and eating Chinese food and going on vacation and not caring about Jesus and she was so confused."

Kitty laughs.

"That's awful and amazing," she says. "At least if there were a lot of Jewish kids at your school your mom didn't _always_ have to come in and explain Passover and Hanukkah. When I was in grade school in Illinois I was the only Jewish kid in my class and it was so weird. I mean, it's still weird now. I go to private school and there's one other Jewish kid in my grade and like, three Muslim kids and two Hindu kids and everyone else is Christian."

"It has a very good mutant program," Theresa says plaintively to Erik.

Erik doesn't throw stones in glass houses—he's certainly not judging the Prydes over this. If Kitty goes where he thinks she goes, any sacrifice to get a spot in that program would be well worth it. Hell, sometimes Erik wishes he could go back to school just to take some of their mutant classes after hearing Charles talk about them.

"St. Stephen's Academy?" he asks.

"Yeah, how'd you know?" Kitty asks.

"Charles—my fiancé—he works a lot around mutant education with the local schools. That's the best program in the city," he says.

"It's why we moved to Queens," Kitty says. "But it's _so_ cool."

"Hard to get into," Erik says, eyebrows raised.

"I'm a genius," Kitty says casually. She grins at him. "Or, I'm really good at computers, at least, and—I don't know, most other stuff. It's all kind of boring, except computers and the mutant stuff. It's easy, though, and the faster I get done with all of it, the more room I have in my senior schedule for computer science and mutant ethics."

"Mutant ethics?" Erik asks. "No shit!" Theresa gives him a pointed look. "Sorry—no, I mean—that's the new one, right? The one they're developing right now?"

"Yeah," Kitty says. "It's on the schedule for the first time for next fall and I _have_ to get in."

"That's what Charles is working on right now," Erik says. "He's helping write some of the curriculum."

"That's so cool!" Kitty says. "Is he a teacher?"

"Sort of," Erik says. "He's got a PhD in genetics—his specialty was the x-genes. And right now he works a lot with the intersection of like...the science side of mutation and the social side of it. And he's a telepath with a _lot_ of opinions about ethics."

"That's awesome," Kitty says. "That means you'll tell me all the answers on all the tests, right?"

"He absolutely will not," Theresa says.

"It's a joke, Mom," Kitty insists. "Because it's an ethics course?"

Any further explanation of Kitty's sarcasm is interrupted by the waiter, who reappears with a platter nearly overflowing with food.

"We might have gone slightly overboard," Erik says, as plate after plate is put on the table.

"You'll take some home," Theresa tells him firmly. "It can be lunch for you and your fiancé tomorrow. We're going away, so it would just go to waste if we took it."

Erik can already tell that they're going to have Words over the check.

"So!" Kitty says, gesturing with a spring roll. "Future Mr. Erik's Husband is a telepath. Can you do anything cool?"

Erik surveys the table, though he doesn't really need to look with his eyes. He can feel the location of every bit of metal on the table, in the restaurant, and in everyone's pockets, as well as the soft waves that indicate the magnetic fields twisting all around them. He raises a hand and the metal fixture that holds the soy sauce rises above the tabletop and twirls slowly around.

"Awesome!" Kitty says. "Are you telekinetic?"

"No," Erik says, placing the soy sauce back down on the table. "I can manipulate magnetic fields, so it's mostly just things that have some ferromagnetic properties, but I've gotten pretty good. Almost everything is an alloy these days and I only need a trace amount to be able to do something with it."

"Wow," Kitty says. 

"And you?" Erik asks. Kitty puts down her spring roll and then puts her hand on the table—no. She puts her hand _through_ the table. Then she pulls it back out again, grinning.

"That's amazing," Erik says. "Can you go through anything solid?"

"Yup," Kitty says. "Including other people. But if I go through machines, I tend to fry them, which sucked a lot when I was younger and just starting to figure out computers _and_ just starting to figure out my powers."

"I used to make magnets and silverware stick to me by accident," Erik admits. "I'd pull and pull and they wouldn't come off and I couldn't figure out how to stop it."

His mother sent him to school more than once with teaspoons and sewing scissors stuck to his body, hidden under additional layers to avoid being teased by his classmates. He used to be so mad that she wouldn't just let him stay home.

"I used to fall through my bed and down to the first floor when I had bad dreams," Kitty says. "Back when we lived in Illinois, before my dad—" She freezes and, for the first time since he tripped over her, she looks nervous, off-kilter.

The three of them are quiet for a moment, the sounds of the restaurant around them filling the air, loud and discordant. Theresa rubs Kitty's back. Erik wonders what to say, if he should say anything at all. In the end, he just quietly takes a portion of lo mein. 

"Anyway," Kitty says, clearing her throat. "Uh, thankfully I don't do that anymore. I, um, think Mrs. May downstairs would probably freak out if I woke up in her living room in the middle of the night. Of course, I could just slip right out without her ever knowing."

"Me too," Erik says, back on more solid ground. "I don't need keys for anything. Charles is crazy jealous—he forgets his everywhere."

"Keyless high-five!" Kitty says, raising her hand, and if Erik feels ridiculous raising his hand to slap hers, he feels even more ridiculous when his hand goes right through hers. She almost cackles. "Works every time," she says.

"I can't even fault you because I'd do that all the time if I could," Erik admits.

"You're kind of a jerk, aren't you?" Kitty asks, but she sounds as though she approves. 

They spend the rest of dinner chatting about Kitty's classes, the latest in mutant politics, childhood memories, and outrageous stories about holidays past, topped off with a story about the fist fight that Erik got into at his Bar Mitzvah party. He's still weirdly proud of that one, even as an adult, though he doesn't think it wins him any sympathy from Theresa.

Mostly, though, Erik is surprised at how easy it is to talk to Kitty. He doesn't really talk to anyone outside of Charles these days, and certainly not this openly. Somehow, he feels like he's known the Prydes forever, loose and comfortable around them, like family. He wonders if it's just because he's missing his mom, or if it's because he's missing something else—this connection to where he comes from, stories about growing up that he can relate to. He's lost contact with almost all of his friends from school and Hebrew school; he waves when he sees them in the neighborhood and one or two of them might still be Facebook friends, but at this point, he's probably hidden their timelines from view anyway. He's not particularly close to anyone at work, though he knows in passing that he's hardly the only Jew in the company. His friends outside of work—people he knows from college, friends of Charles'—are mostly mutants and they mostly talk about mutant issues.

Erik doesn't mind that—it's mostly by design, actually—but he's never before stopped to realize that while he's put quite a bit of effort into connecting to that part of him, he's slacked a little on some of the others. He likes talking to other Jewish people. He likes reminiscing with other Jewish people, people who aren't just the doting older women who knew his mother. He feels connected to that part of himself for the first time in a long time. He feels like he's learning something, or maybe re-learning it. He feels...happy.

He's not exactly sure how to say that to Kitty and Theresa, who probably didn't ask for this when they showed up for dinner tonight. He's not one for emotional revelations as it is—Charles has to wheedle them out of him and Charles is both a telepath and the person he loves more than anything. He has no idea how to broach the subject with relative strangers. 

Luckily, Theresa seems to understand what he's struggling to say once their table is cleared to be boxed into leftovers.

"This was so, so lovely, Erik," she says. "I have to admit I was skeptical when Kitty suggested it, but it was a pleasure to meet you and I hope you won't be a stranger. We don't live very far from here, you know, and we'd love to set an extra place or two at the seder table."

"And Purim, don't forget Purim!" Kitty says. "Mom makes the _best_ hamantaschen and last year these girls from temple did this awesome interpretation of the Book of Esther. Plus, I need to meet your fiancé and charm the pants off him so he puts in a good word for me with whoever is going to teach mutant ethics."

"I—" The lump is back in Erik's throat and he swallows against it and tells himself he can be as stupidly emotional as he wants when he gets home to Gene Kelly. "That sounds really great, actually."

"I wasn't going to let you say no," Theresa tells him.

"Yeah," Kitty says. "Give me your phone."

Erik pulls his phone out and unlocks it, then slides it across the table. Kitty snatches it immediately and taps the screen for a moment or two before returning it to him.

"I gave you my number and mom's number and I texted myself from your phone so I have yours so you can't get rid of us," she says.

"Thanks," Erik says. It doesn't seem like enough, but he's still not sure how to put words to what he's feeling.

The waiter comes back with a full bag of food that Theresa immediately foists on Erik before he can protest. She also hands the waiter her credit card and glares at Erik when he tries to take out his own.

"No, really, you should see the family I'm marrying into," he insists. "Like, I could quit my job and lounge around the house all day playing video games and Charles literally wouldn't notice the difference in income."

"You can get us next time, then," Theresa says. "Tonight you were our guest—it's my treat."

Erik likes the sound of next time, the idea of it. He likes the idea of introducing Charles to these people, of talking to them, of being a part of their lives and having them be a part of his.

"Okay," he agrees. "Next time."

There's still a line out the door and there's nothing left to do but bundle themselves up in their winter gear and head back out into the night.

"Do you want to come over and watch Disney movies with us?" Kitty asks.

"No thanks," Erik says, with unfeigned regret. "Mom and I always watched _Singin' in the Rain_ , so I'm probably going to do that and call Charles and go to bed."

"What about tomorrow?" Kitty asks. "Are you going to the movies tomorrow?"

"Kitty," Theresa says, but there's no warning or bite to it. She squeezes Kitty's shoulder.

"What?" Kitty says, looking up at her mother. "I don't want him to be by himself!"

"I am going to the movies," Erik says. "Charles will be home by then, hopefully. Aren't you going skiing, though?"

"We're not leaving until, like, two," Kitty says. "We always see a movie first. You should text me in the morning!"

"Kitty," Theresa says again. Erik laughs.

"I'll see how late we sleep in," he says. "But if not, we can get together some other time so you can meet Charles."

Charles' jaw is going to hit the floor when he finds out Erik went out and made fucking _friends_ while he was gone for sixteen hours.

"Great!" Kitty says. She pushes open the door to the restaurant, letting a burst of cold air inside as the three of them hustle out to the relative quiet of the streets. The silence rings in Erik's ears, even as a car races by and the radio plays at the bodega on the corner.

"So...I'm gonna head home," he says. He gestures back towards his apartment with his bag of leftovers.

"Us too," Theresa says, putting her arm around Kitty's shoulder. "It was wonderful to meet you, Erik. We'll have to have you and Charles over for dinner soon."

"He'd like that," Erik says. "I would too."

There's one awkward moment when he's not sure if this is a place for hugs or not, but Kitty quickly steps forward to wrap her arms around him and he finds himself returning the gesture easily.

"Have a good night, Erik!" she says, then steps back so her mother can do the same.

"You too," he says. "This was...."

He struggles again for the words. He's told these people enough things about him tonight without getting into the heavy stuff—the loneliness since his mother's death, the numbness, the feeling of disconnect, of distance. Something has been missing for the past eighteen months, something more than just his mother. He realizes now what it was.

"I really needed this," he tells them. "In a lot of ways."

"I thought you might," Theresa says. Erik smiles. "We'll see you soon."

Erik waves one last time before he turns and heads home. He feels full and warm. He misses his mother, yes, and Charles, but it's a more distant ache. He doesn't feel sick over it anymore. He doesn't feel heavy and sad. He's...happy, actually.

The happiness isn't chased away by the bitter cold or by nearly getting hit by a car zipping through the crosswalk without slowing down or the incessant Christmas music. He's still smiling when he gets home and puts away his leftovers, then changes into pajamas, wraps himself in the afghan his mother crocheted, and puts on _Singin' in the Rain_.

He's still smiling when he falls asleep.

***

When Erik opens his eyes next, Charles is leaning over the dvd player to shut it off. He reaches out with his powers to the clock on the wall—it's one in the morning.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, the words slurred with sleep.

"I came home," Charles says softly. He turns off the television and pivots his chair next to the couch. His fingers are cool against Erik's forehead, brushing his hair back. "I didn't want you to be alone. I didn't want to be alone either. There's nothing for me there."

Erik closes his eyes and presses into Charles' touch for a moment. Charles came home for him. The aching feeling in his chest has finally fully receded.

"Come on, darling, get up. Let's go to bed," Charles says.

Erik stumbles to his feet and follows Charles into the bedroom. He crawls under the covers and dozes while Charles takes care of his nightly routine in the bathroom and then transfers up to the bed, when Erik rolls over and presses himself against Charles' side.

"You didn't have to come home," he says.

"I did," Charles said. "I really did. Now, get to sleep. We have a movie to see tomorrow morning."

"We do," Erik murmurs. "And there's someone you have to meet—" He pauses to yawn wide enough that his jaw cracks. "—I'll tell you about it in the morning."

"Tell me all about it in the morning," Charles says, petting Erik's hair. "Good night. I love you."

"Love you too," Erik says, and drifts back to sleep.


End file.
